


In Vino Veritas

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Series, basically ya girl Cal is like...not the best at vulnerability, from drunken lips come sober thoughts, shocker I know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:47:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23298811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: The first time it happens, she claims no memory of it, and he believes her.The second and third times, he begins to have suspicions.The fourth, he decides to actually confront her.Or, the Lioness of Cintra has trouble expressing affection. At least when sober.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Comments: 25
Kudos: 91





	In Vino Veritas

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Fact: this is actually the first thing I wrote for this pairing. But it's been a bitch to edit, what with current events causing hella anxiety. But here we are, finally. Enjoy?

The first time, he truly believes her when she says she has no memory of it.

They have been married for only a few months, and he has just returned from another voyage to Skellige. The hall is still echoing with raucous laughter and drunken cheers as petty knights and noblemen far past their prime josh and jostle, spilling their beer as they chortle over past escapades and over-exaggerated exploits. Eist is mildly surprised to see that the queen’s table is already empty. She normally isn’t one to leave the hall until everyone else has retired, diligent in overseeing her kingdom in every detail (and also because she does not trust her lords when drunk, Cintran ale lives up to its reputation).

Perhaps Pavetta has called her away, he thinks. The babe is not yet born and both Pavetta and her mother are as anxious as horses aboard a ship during a tempest (honestly, he expected as much from timid Pavetta, but Calanthe’s fluttering fearfulness still surprises him). He skirts around the edge of the great hall, staying in the shadows lest someone calls to him. He’d rather hack off his own arm than stay at a court function any longer than absolutely necessary, and the idea of enduring it without Calanthe’s snarky eyerolls and low asides makes the feeling deepen. He ducks his head and doubles his pace, slipping out the side door into the cool stone hallway, much darker and quieter than the hall beside it.

Eist stops at the juncture of two corridors—to his right, the path to the set of suites occupied by Duny and Pavetta, who will remain at Cintra until well after the child is born, and straight ahead, the way to Calanthe’s chambers, now technically his own.

They still don’t feel like his. Still smell entirely of her, still hold all her things and all her memories of the life before Eist.

Not for the first time, he wonders how long it will feel like this, like he’s straddling two worlds. Wonders how it will resolve itself—will he eventually feel entirely at-peace and in-place here, or will she simply tire of him, relegate him to a mere figurehead of a husband, only parading him out for grand events and battles?

She enjoys him, he knows that beyond all doubt. They are relatively still newlyweds, and all the fire and fervor afforded that particular concept are still very much there. She laughs at his jokes, in her own silent, huffing way, corner of her mouth curling into the most feral smile, still somehow tinged with softness. She holds both great affection and great desire for him, shows both in her own ways, too.

But he cannot help but wonder if the shine will fade. And sometimes, he thinks she’s wondering the same. There are times, in the stillness between them, when he swears that she’s somehow still holding her breath, waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop, waiting for the spell to break.

They spent years dancing around each other, tantalizing and just out of the other’s reach, and Eist had often feared that sometimes, that was the whole point of the attraction—the safety of the unattainable. If they ever actually consummated their desire, it might just evaporate into thin air, like a bittersweet dream one can only hazily remember.

So far, that has not been the case. The corner of his mouth tugs into a smile at the memory. No, he’d not awoken the next morning, suddenly cured of his infatuation—if anything, he’d been further damned. And Calanthe seemed to feel the same, if that entire next day had been anything to go by.

But still. It could happen. The world is wide and life is long, both a blessing and a curse. Anything could happen.

The corridor towards Pavetta and Duny’s chambers is darkened, so he makes his choice and continues on, towards his queen.

The guards posted in front of the heavy wooden doors confirm his suspicion—for whatever reason, the Lioness of Cintra has officially retired for the evening.

He feels a small spark of delight. She’ll be tipsy, no doubt. She’s always rather fun like that. He’s arrived a day early thanks to strong winds, and he hopes the surprise will go over well.

With a nod of acknowledgement to the soldiers posted on either side, he gingerly opens the door and slips into the room.

It’s completely dark, save the moonlight slipping through the open windows. The air is chilled, a light breeze stirring through the chamber with no fire in the hearth to combat it. Calanthe loves sleeping like this, when the weather permits. He grins, feeling a measure of satisfaction in knowing that her body will be warm underneath the coverlet, radiating a heat that often makes him wonder if she truly does have a fire burning within. It would explain the temper.

He removes his cloak and tunic, dropping them to the floor.

The sound makes his wife stir, impossibly light sleeper that she is. He's surprised that she hadn't awakened at the sound of the door opening.

“It’s just me,” he reassures her gently. She mumbles something in response, too groggy to be concerned or elated. He keeps his breeches and his undershirt, slipping into bed. His skin is instantly warmed by the heat trapped underneath the coverlet.

The shifting of the mattress stirs her further. She doesn’t roll over to face him, but her hand flops in his direction. “Away. I have a husband.”

He fights back a laugh at that. “Do you, now?”

She hums in affirmation. Mumbles something else into her pillow.

“What was that?”

She lifts her head slightly, speaking more clearly, “I do. A good one.”

His grin widens. He shifts closer. “Tell me about this good husband of yours.”

Somehow, he can feel her sleepy warm smile in response. She rolls over, onto her back, right hand flopping against the mattress in the dramatically sloppy way that only the very drunk and very exhausted can manage.

“He’s _sweet_.” Sugary affection curls around the word, her chest filling with the kind of happy sigh he’d expect from a blushing young maiden. “Nice arse, too.”

He laughs. There she is, his true wife.

“Do you miss him?” He asks, half-afraid of how much curiosity colors his tone, how easily she might be able to tell, how simpering and needy he might look.

She gives another little sigh, this one more stifled, etched with longing. “Every moment of every day.”

He feels a prick of shock at the confession, at how vulnerable her voice sounds in the quiet darkness, how genuine her emotions feel, how open she’s being in this moment.

_I see you decided to grace us with your fleas again, sea hound,_ she’d drawled, the last time he’d returned. The juxtaposition now is a bit startling, even if he’d known that her previous words were tinged with amused affection (even if she’d thoroughly shown him just how delighted she was at his return, once they were alone).

He decides to push his luck, sidling just a little bit closer, “What do you miss about him?”

“His hands.” It’s too dark to properly see her face, but he knows exactly how the corners of her mouth are curling into a devilish grin. “His…stupid hair and his craggy face and his laughter and his…”

She simply devolves into a deep sigh. She rolls over further, curling into Eist, her forehead burrowing against his chest.

“I just love him.”

With a hard blink, Eist Tuirseach realizes that this is the first time she’s ever said those words. Not that he hasn’t felt her love—or at the very least, her lust—for him. But she’s never said it, never declared it with such aching certainty that he almost feels a wash of pity for leaving her for so long.

She lets out another hard, deep breath, and he can smell the ale, can tell she’s had far more to drink than usual. He gently wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

“Sir,” she pushes back, tilting her head up and away, eyes still scrunched closed in an adorably drunk expression. “I have a _husband_.”

He laughs again, not sure why she’s keeping up this aspect of the farce, but willing to let her keep it all the same. He removes his arm, holding his hand up in a gesture of deference.

“I shall remain as chaste as a church mouse,” he promises.

She hums, obviously pleased with this.

“Good,” she gives a nod, head flopping dramatically against the pillow. “I should hate to gut you in the name of my husband’s honor.”

Not _her_ honor, he notes. _His_. As if she couldn’t bear the thought of anyone thinking him a cuckold. It’s adorably chivalrous.

“You are a noble lady,” he informs her, teasingly.

She snorts at that. “I may have to gut you just for using such foul epithets towards me.”

She rolls over again and doesn’t say another word. He stays awake for quite a while longer, his mind turning it all over. They’ve never outright declared their love for each other. In truth, that may not seem odd for a royal couple, seeing as so few of those unions are by active, love-fueled choice. But their marriage was a choice—and there is no doubting the active part of it, in the least.

Still, _love_. He likes the sound of it on her tongue, directed at him. And he wants to say it back to her. Maybe this is the other shoe that’s waiting to drop. He comforts himself with the thought—yes, they’re waiting for a shift between them, but maybe, it’s into something deeper, something stronger, rather than something broken or disillusioned. He finally drifts asleep, feeling as if perhaps this is the beginning of the _something more_ that he’s been waiting for, the feeling of have two halves in one world, versus one half in two.

* * *

In the morning, she’s looking down at him, blinking in surprise.

“When did you get here?” Her voice is low and raspy, the way it always is in the early morning. He adores the timbre, loves that this is a tone that so few have heard, loves how lucky he is to be one of them.

He sits up, frowning slightly. “Last night. I came in; we had a whole conversation.”

“Did we?” Her eyes are wide, almost scared.

“We did.” He feels a prickle of intuition.

“I must have been far drunker than I thought,” she murmurs, turning away slightly. She sits up further, grimacing as her eyes squeeze shut. A hangover for certain. “I don’t—I don’t remember a thing.”

“Pity,” he shifts forward, placing a kiss atop her thigh, still covered by bedclothes. “It was a lovely conversation.”

She looks over at him with wary eyes, like an animal that fears it may be hunted. His chest tightens and he realizes she would most likely be mortified if he told her exactly what she’d said.

_She’s not ready_ , he realizes. And in a way, he understands. He remembers the old court rumors, from long before anything ever happened between them. It was said that she loved her first husband, in the beginning, and that had proven to be a source of further heartache on her part.

So as usual, he does what he can to shield her, even from the consequences of her own actions. As usual, he chooses to wait, to let her make the choice again on her own. He gives her an escape, “There were promises made. About how exactly you were going to properly welcome me home, come the morn.”

Rather pointedly, he sits up to glance towards the window—where the morn shines brightly. He looks back to see her grinning wickedly in response.

“Apologies for forgetting.” She hooks an arm around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. “Seems I’ll have to make it up to you.”

It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t remember, he tells himself. She did say it, and she did mean it—and he remembers, will always remember, carrying it in his heart like a flame, fueling his certainty and burning away any doubts.

He can wait for more. He’s waited so long just for this, he tells himself. He can wait for more.

* * *

The second time, it is he who is in bed first, recovering from an injury sustained during his last voyage. He’s only just returned from another jaunt at sea, during which a storm tore loose the sails. He’d been trying to retie the corner to a mast when a strong gust had knocked it—and his shoulder—completely off kilter. There was a banquet the night of his return, but Calanthe had, uncharacteristically, allowed him to forego his obligations and leave the festivities early when the pain had become unbearable. It only confirmed his suspicion that he looked as awful as he felt.

He tries to console himself with the fact that at least he’s missing a tedious court affair. But it’s hard to be grateful when he’s cooped up in a room that does nothing but remind him of the woman currently at said tedious affair, probably laughing and smiling and smelling of jasmine and ginger, like his pillowcase.

As if summoned by his thoughts, she stumbles in, the air of triumph palpable as she sets her goblet on the table rather forcefully, causing wine to slosh out, onto the slick polished table. The fire is crackling in the hearth, making the gold threads of her dress shimmer and dance with every movement. Her skin seems to glow, her cheeks red with merriment.

“My love,” her voice practically melts. “My dear darling sea hound.”

He sits up in bed, thoroughly confused and wincing in pain. He’s half-convinced a doppler has come, disguised as his wife.

“Look at you,” she extends her arms to him, moving closer. She reaches the edge of the bed, crawling onto it. “My poor dear thing.”

Her hand is light on his chest, gently guiding him to lie back down. She leans forward, kissing his wounded left shoulder and murmuring more words of affection-tinged pity.

If it is a doppler, he’ll let it kill him anyways, he decides. This is too fascinating to intervene.

She kisses her way from his shoulder to his chest, teeth coming out to gently test and pull against his skin. That’s when he knows it’s her, for certain. Her right hand is planted on the mattress, keeping her steady, her left hand rubbing small, warm circles on his stomach.

“My sweet thing,” she looks up at him, eyes shining and unfocused. “How d'you feel?”

The wine is sour and heavy on her breath, and he suddenly understands. It’s been almost half a year since the night that she was too drunk to remember. This has all the similar hallmarks.

“I…have seen better days, my queen,” he answers slowly, almost afraid of breaking this odd spell. There’s a hesitation—she probably won’t remember this either, and he doesn’t want to take advantage of the situation, no matter how pleasant it currently seems.

She gives a small sound of dismay at the pronouncement. Her left hand comes up to cup the side of his face, fingertips playing lightly over the stubble on his jawline.

“I missed you,” she admits, tone as low and heavy as the darkness in her eyes. “It’s terribly boring, without you by my side.”

He grins at this, knowing it’s true. She loathes court affairs almost as much as he does. They’ve made them more bearable by keeping a running commentary, uttered out of the sides of their mouths, placing bets over which noble will fall down drunk first or which knight will end up cutting off his own dick in an attempt to do some ridiculous and daring sword trick. And there was one rather memorable affair, during which they’d taken turns giving each other thigh massages, trying to see who could be the boldest without getting caught.

“I do apologize,” he replies. Slightly surprised by the honesty of his own words, he adds, “I’m sorry I missed it.”

“Liar,” she teases. He has to chuckle slightly in agreement.

Still, he clarifies, “I am sorry I missed a chance to spend the evening at your side.”

She blushes slightly at that, though maybe it’s just a trick of the firelight. There’s a thickness in the air, coiling between them, heavy with expectancy and a tinge of fear. Her gaze flicks away, to the corner of the room, lashes drooping to further hide her eyes.

“I wasn’t just talking about the feast,” her tone is so heavy, it sinks into the coverlet. Her shoulders are tight, as if awaiting a blow.

His heart melts like candlewax, spreading through his lungs with warm affection. Matching her low tone, he admits, “Neither was I.”

Her lips twitch and war against themselves, trying not to smile. She’s so adorable, he wants to laugh, but knows better. The tension is heavier now, to the point of feeling uncomfortable. Eist thinks of the fear in her eyes, that morning after her drunken confession.

He saves her, yet again, “Did the noble lords all cry into their cups at the loss of their queen?”

She smirks and gives a small hum. “More like cheered at the thought that now they can chase the serving girls without disapproving looks from old mother hen.”

He chuckles, knowing that Calanthe’s ladies-in-waiting are still at the banquet, more than willing to step in and take down anyone who might take advantage of the queen’s absence. The women of Cintra are bold now, under the rule of this queen who makes no apologies and takes no prisoners. It feels more like Skellige than anywhere else on the Continent, which is comforting in some small way (though it is still not Skellige, still not home).

She shrugs, lips pursing into a carelessly unaffected moue. “I’d rather be here, with you.”

He tries to shift his arm, so that his hand can pat her hip affectionately. However, the movement is cut short by the searing pain tearing through his shoulder and neck. He hisses and she’s immediately on alert.

“Oh, oh, darling,” she’s sitting on her knees now, both hands free to flutter helplessly at his shoulder. Through the pain, he dumbly notes that she’s used more terms of endearment in the last five minutes than he’s ever heard her utter in his direction before. She gingerly takes his hands in hers, mindful not to shift his injured arm too much, and leans down, peppering light kisses on his fingertips. Her lashes droop over her blushing cheeks as she nuzzles further into his hands, breath warm and heavy. “I missed you so much. I couldn’t stand it—not another moment without you.”

Her voice is etched with such aching, he almost thinks she may actually cry.

“I love you, my sweeting,” she murmurs, placing another hot, staying kiss into his palm. Her lips drag against his skin as she whispers, “I love these hands and I love you.”

His heart wars between fluttering into explosion and stopping completely. His throat tightens, his mind whirring and trying to remember every detail of this moment, the shine of the fire on her dark hair, the glowing curve of the crown on her head, the warmth of her kisses, the exact shade and tone of her words, the delicate grasp of her hands around his.

She takes a long, shuddering breath, eyes squeezing further shut, as if she’s being pulled under a wave of emotion. Then she looks up, in that unfocused, unseeing way of drunkards, and rasps, “You have to heal quickly, so that I can properly fuck you.”

He laughs so suddenly and so sharply that it makes his arm scream in pain again. She blinks, still utterly serious.

“I’ll recover so quickly that the bards shall write songs of a miracle,” he promises, only half-joking.

She nods, apparently satisfied. Then she sets his hands down gently, turning her attention to the ties of his breeches.

She doesn’t give anymore profusions of love and adoration—at least not verbally. But her mouth gets the message across, all the same.

* * *

The next morning, Eist is far less surprised to hear his wife’s groans of dismay as she shields her face from the morning light.

“Why am I still in my dress?” She wonders aloud, pushing up onto her elbows and frowning. She notices the faint white dribble on her shoulder and glances back at Eist, who merely arches his brow. He knows her ceremonial crown lies just over the edge of the bed, unceremoniously tossed when its weight began to affect her efforts on his cock and his hand’s ability to curl into her hair.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” He asks.

“Sir Madchen sliced his finger unsheathing his sword,” she answers, brows furrowing. “Got blood all over the pear tarts, what a waste.”

“You don’t even like pears.”

“No, but the children do.”

He smiles at that. Calanthe often orders ostentatious amounts of food for feasts, following the long-held tradition of handing out the leftover food at the kitchen door the next day. Despite the fact that he’s never seen her eat a sweet, she always makes sure there is a particularly large selection of them, usually ornately designed. He’s caught her more than once, hovering near a window, grinning down at the children comparing their treats in the kitchen yard, little pies with hearts or stars filigreed into the crust or crème puffs made into swans or golden pears glittering under a thick layer of crunchy brown sugar, almost too beautiful to eat. He's never teased her about it, knowing that if he did, she’d probably resolve to never watch the kids again.

Besides, every time he does stumble upon such a scene, he feels...blessed. Like he's being allowed to witness something soft and miraculous, something no one else gets to see. Because there's certainly a feeling of permission being granted, every time she merely glances up and smiles. He's always understood that, and cherished it deeply.

She is getting softer, he’s noticed. At least around him. Now that their granddaughter has arrived (yes, _theirs_ , Calanthe has never hesitated in making sure he knows that he is Cirilla’s grandfather, regardless of blood relation), she’s allowing him to see even more of that softness. The way she coos as she cradles Cirilla in her arms, the way she smiles with syrupy-warm adoration whenever she watches him hold the babe as well.

_I love these hands_ , she’d decreed, just last night. He understands that they hold new meaning to her. These hands have held their granddaughter, have been gentle and sheltering in ways that she hasn’t seen before, and she loves it.

She loves him. She said so, many times. Even if she doesn’t remember any of them.

He grins up at her.

“What a sweeting,” he teases, only lightly. Truth be told, he’s hoping it will somehow jog her memory, remind her of how she’d uttered that name to him. He’s still slightly dazed by it all, the utter tenderness she’d unleashed upon his last night, more disconcerting than any tempest her temper has conjured.

She blushes, but if she remembers anything, she hides it well. “I’ll have your guts for garters if you ever breathe such a vile word in my direction again.”

“I don’t think I’d mind much,” he informs her easily. With a light, dreamy sigh, he closes his eyes, “Forever wrapped around the queen’s luscious thighs, what a fate.”

She rolls her eyes and gives a snort of derision at his obviously-feigned maudlin sensibilities. She flicks a hand in his direction, but catches herself just in time, before she actually spats his injured arm.

Yes, she loves him. He lets the certainty blossom and bloom inside him.

* * *

The third time, they are on a ship bound for Skellige. It has been just over a year since the night they bound their hands and swore fealty to each other, both politically and personally. For the first time, she’s sailing to Skellige, for a feast honoring their union.

There are worse ways to spend an anniversary, he decides. Being onboard makes Calanthe stir-crazy, and they’ve gotten rather inventive with how to best dispel the restless energy.

Eist can honestly say he’s never spent this much time inside his cabin before. Thankfully his crew is more than capable of managing without his constant presence. He merely rolls his eyes at the knowing smirks whenever he makes his way across the deck, back to his room, to his queen. Envious, the lot of them. And they should be.

Today, however, must have been more boring than usual. He swears the woman has drunk an entire keg of ale, entirely on her own. He enters the cabin, greeted by the sight of his wife, swaying even as she sits in her seat, smiling lazily as she lifts her glass in toast.

“To the Sea Hound of Skellige,” she drawls. “Long may he sail.”

“Aye to that.” He bolts the door behind him. She rises to her feet, unsteadily bridging the gap between them. One hand still firmly clutching her pewter cup, she uses the other to grasp his lapel, pushing him against the door with a thud.

“Let’s fuck,” she decrees, burying her nose into his neck. Her tongue traces a lazy path along his collarbone, breath hot and heavy.

“We’ll be to port in a few hours,” he informs her.

She leans back slightly, mouth open but still curling into a devious smirk. “I wasn’t expecting _that_ long of an engagement, but I’m willing to try, my dear.”

“I meant perhaps we should try sobering you up,” he tries to stifle a grin, tries to feign exasperation. It’s hard when she’s so adorable.

“Intense physical activity clears the mind,” she informs him, tone saturated with mock seriousness. Her hand is slipping under his shirt, fingers curling delightedly into the bare flesh beneath.

He gingerly takes the cup from her hand, and she doesn’t fuss. She’s too busy diving her now-free hand under his shirt as well. She rises up on her toes again, nipping the spot just below his jaw as both hands come up to squeeze his chest with barely-restrained ferocity.

“Come to bed,” she breaths, hot and heavy against his ear.

It’s tempting. But he’s being serious about the time frame—and her need to be much more sober by then.

“Calanthe—”

“Just let me love you,” she whines.

“What?” He feels the way she stiffens, just slightly, just for a flash, just enough to be noticeable but also minute enough to make Eist think that maybe he imagined it.

“Let me fuck you,” she says, with a light growl. Maybe that was what she said the first time, Eist thinks. She redoubles her efforts, grabbing his face and pulling him into a fierce kiss, sliding her body further against his.

It would keep her busy enough not to drink anymore, he decides.

* * *

“Oh. Oh fuck.” She groans. Sitting beside her in bed, Eist looks down with a slight smile of pity. She clutches her forehead. “How much did I have to drink?”

“Too much,” he decrees.

She rolls over and hurls into the nearest spittoon. There’s no need in asking if she remembers, or if she even actually said what Eist thinks he’s heard. He knows the answer. At least the answer she'll give, anyways.

This time, it isn’t as reassuring as it once was, the knowing that she expresses her love, even if she doesn’t remember it. He realizes he needs more than just a one-sided memory, more than just drunken assurances.

He loves her. Beyond all reckoning or reasoning. And he knows that the feeling is mutual. But he wants her to know that he knows. Wants them to move past this odd little dance, into deeper, into _more_.

A now-familiar rankle of frustration slips up his spine. He’s equally frustrated at himself—after all, he could just declare his love for her, just have done with this whole charade. But if he does, what then? If she returns his sentiments, will it be out of a sense of duty, because she thinks he needs to hear it back? (He does, oh gods does he, but more than anything, he wants it to be that carefree declaration that she made the first time, without prompting or sense of obligation.)

She sits back up slowly, groaning as she grimaces, head thudding back against the headboard. Even now, disheveled and drunken, she’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

Still, he holds back from even saying that. It wasn’t part of who they were, before the marriage. It’s hard to make it part of who they are now. Before, they always danced around things, always coy and teasing, but always, always retreating at a certain point. They created a line in the sand that is still difficult to cross, even without so much pretense between them.

He can’t help but wonder if this is what the beginning of the end looks like. Feeling trapped in love that can’t fully be expressed.

"Oh, gods help me," Calanthe groans, eyes squeezing shut against another wave of nausea.

His heart echoes the cry, for entirely different reasons.

* * *

The fourth time, he truly thinks that she isn’t as drunk as she pretends to be.

Because, you see, _this time_ he is with her at the banquet. He watches how many pints of ale she drinks, how many toasts she acknowledges, how almost-perfectly timed the stages of her sloppiness appear.

She’s getting careless, he thinks. It’s been nearly three months since the trip to Skellige, and since then, he’s spent the entire time in Cintra, no voyages or battles in between. Just the two of them, spending almost every waking moment together. He’s caught the softness around her eyes, when she thinks he isn’t looking. Has woken in the night and pretended to still be asleep as her fingertips gently traced over his skin, breath light and shaking as if she were in absolute wonder of his presence, the adoration palpable. Hasn’t missed the way she stays so close, just a beat or two longer than necessary, whenever she transfers Ciri into his arms. 

It once was a source of joy. Now it just frustrates him. That this woman, this lioness, this thing of fire and steel, could be so afraid of three little words, so afraid of making herself emotionally vulnerable for a man who has literally taken her out of her physical armor, whom she has physically opened herself up for without hesitation or restraint, more times than either can count at this point.

What they have is good. Great, even. The connection is there, even if it is not spoken. The attraction, even deeper than when they’d first begun. The respect, the sense of trust—unbridled and unbroken, a bond most would kill for.

But it could be _more_. Could be _greater_. Eist knows this, more deeply than he knows anything else in this world, and it chafes. Some of the frustration is directed at himself for being equally cowardly, but he’d pour his heart out a thousand times over, just to hear her do the same once.

Still, he merely smiles as she sways down the corridor, humming happily. She hooks her arm around his elbow, pressing her cheek against his arm. However, once they round the corner, she stands straightly, releasing her grip before the guards at her chamber door can see.

That’s when he knows for certain that it’s all an act. She’s come to him, all those times before, too afraid to utter such words without a way out, a way to deny them—and his heart aches at the thought that somehow, he’s done something to make her think she has to concoct this elaborate farce in the first place.

Though she _is_ still quite intoxicated, he can’t deny that. Just…not as black-out drunk as she will feign, come the morning.

He’ll let her have this, he decides. One last time.

The doors close behind them, and they’re truly alone. She spins towards him again, face filled with warmth and happiness. She’s breathtaking to behold.

“Another round?” she suggests, moving towards the set of decanters on the side table.

He gently scoops an arm around her waist, though not with enough force to actually hold her back, “I think you’ve had enough, my queen. You’re already going to regret it.”

She looks up, still leaning further into his grasp. “One more. A nightcap.”

“It’s technically morning,” he points out. And it is—the midnight bell was hours ago.

“Semantics,” she breathes, corner of her mouth hooking into a grin, all teeth and certainty. She knows he’ll give in.

And he does. He gently redirects her to the chairs in front of the fire, going to get the drink himself.

She frowns when he returns with only one. “Nothing for yourself?”

He doesn’t answer. Merely hands her the goblet and takes a seat in the chair opposite hers.

She slides further into her seat, knees widening suggestively, “Something else to quench your thirst?”

He chuckles softly at her lecherous ways. Her grin deepens, obviously pleased that she’s made him laugh. There’s something almost-prideful in her smile, as if she genuinely cherishes his laughter.

_What do you miss about him?_ Eist remembers asking that first night. He also remembers one of her answers: _His laughter._

Has his suspicious mind altered the memory, or did she always sound so certain, so sober and in-control of her tongue?

She downs the drink in her hand—liquid courage, he knows. Then, with an overdramatically drunken flair, she tosses the goblet into the hearth. The fire rises and crackles in response.

Her aim was too good, he thinks. She really is just acting.

With a slow, lazy smile, she shifts in her seat, leaning towards him. “You look quite handsome in this light, dear hound.”

Her eyes are glittering as she rises, coming to stand between his knees. Her fingers slip through his hair, curling and tugging with just enough force to be felt, still inexplicably tender. She looks down at him in sweet adoration.

“I love this face so,” she coos. With rougher hands, she pushes across the line of his jaw, giving a small noise of delight for the stubble against her palms. “This craggy, ridiculous face. How I love it.”

She’s swaying gently, almost rhythmically, hands still pushing and running through his hair, keeping his face tilted up, gazing directly into hers. Her expression is soft, impossibly soft, the lines around her eyes filled with warmth, the smile on her lips devoid of anything but pure adoring affection.

Of all the ways he imagined this woman murdering him, he hadn’t guessed it would be through tenderness.

“My dear, sweet hound,” her voice is still low, so heavy with adoration that it seems to sink to the floor, like a stone in the sea. She pulls his head in closer, to rest against her abdomen, giving her hands better access to slip down his shoulders, fingers flexing happily into the muscles of his back.

“Oh, I love you,” she breathes, the words barely audible to Eist, currently buried under his wife’s upper body, pressed deeply into the softness of her stomach. Barely, but still audible.

His hands grip her hips, fighting back the urge to scream in frustration. These words, this exactly careless certainty, that’s all he’s wanted for months now, and he hates that they’re reduced to this.

Then she’s pulling back, gathering her skirts to straddle his lap, taking his head in her hands as she peppers his face with kisses, making small sounds of delight with each one. _I love you, I love you, I love you, I love this face, and I love you._

“Come now,” he tightens his grip around her waist. “You’re so far gone, you won’t remember any of this tomorrow.”

It’s a lie, he now knows. But it gives her an excuse, he also knows. She sits back slightly, finding his gaze.

“Then give me something good to forget,” she breathes. One brow arches with such searing slowness, he’s momentarily transfixed.

Well, she literally asked for it. He pulls her in closer, one hand at the small of her back, the other at the nape of her neck, pressing his lips against her ear as he whispers, “I love you, Calanthe.”

Again, he feels the sudden stiffness, the way she snaps so easily out of her feigned drunken state. But by the time she sits back again, she’s resumed her air of complete intoxication.

“Of course you do,” she boops the tip of his nose, biting her bottom lip. “What’s not to love?”

She doesn’t break character for the rest of the night. Nor does he.

* * *

It is nearly noon by the time Eist awakes, feeling uneasy—but not from last night’s wine.

They’re going to finally have done with this, he decides. Aside from the fact that they’re married, gods above, they’re also far too deeply connected to keep willfully choosing not to trust each other with everything.

Calanthe is, rather surprisingly, already up. She’s wearing her heavier dressing gown, the deep blue one embroidered with little golden lion heads (and now, because he has known her so very deeply for over a year now, he knows the language of her clothing—it’s heavy and grounding, making her feel sheltered, but also it allows her to wear nothing underneath), hair already in a simple braid that implies she did it herself, rather than ring for her handmaid. Her back is turned to him, head swiveling between two points on the table in front of her. She’s mapping something, he realizes. Configuring some kind of distance calculation in that brilliant, albeit confusing, head of hers.

He slips out of bed, not bothering with a robe. The fire is going again, the room is warm enough without clothing. He gently places his hands on her hips, a light warning before leaning further in to place a gentle kiss atop her head.

She’s used to these little tokens, by now. Though she never actually acknowledges them. Not when she knows they’re meant in love, not particularly lust. That had been part of Eist’s attempts as well—letting her know that she was safe, that he loved her, too, that she could declare it openly without fear of rejection. Truth be told, he needs them just as much as she does, to stave off the clawing need to fall to his knees and confess everything.

“Sleep well?” She intones, voice flat and disinterested. She still doesn’t look up from her map.

“Well enough. And you?” He shifts, so that he’s just over her right shoulder. “Another forgotten night?”

She hums, lips curling in amusement. “Was I too terribly awful?”

There’s something almost fearful in her tone. He almost regrets his decision to make her face it.

“You were lovely, as always,” he says gently, dipping his head closer to hers. “More so, perhaps.”

“Oh?” She glances up for the first time, brows lifted in question. He can practically hear her mind clicking and whirring, as if cataloging every moment of the night before, trying to figure out which particular moment earned her such a compliment. 

She does remember. He feels a victorious flash in his chest. Any doubts he had are gone.

He waits a beat before pushing further, “But then again, you know that. Seeing as you _do_ remember.”

Her eyes widen, just a fraction, flicking back up to meet his gaze. The lines around her mouth slacken, just slightly.

Even in battle, he doesn’t think he’s seen her this terrified before.

“I…don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, with very little conviction. Her gaze slides away, shifting slightly, putting more of her shoulder between them.

“You do,” he insists. “And what’s more, you remember _all_ of them.”

She stills, but doesn’t ask for clarification—because she knows _exactly_ what he’s talking about.

“If my drinking is so bothersome to you, I shall endeavor to limit it,” she says without feeling. He rolls his eyes. As if this woman would ever curtail anything, for anyone. “I do apologize if I said or did—”

“Don’t.” His hand on her upper arm stops her. He fights down the urge to scream, to raise his voice, knowing it won’t work in his favor in the slightest. So he takes a breath, forces his tone to stay gentle, open, almost pleading, “Don’t apologize. There isn’t anything to apologize for.”

She merely ducks her head, blinking rapidly. He can feel her pulling away from him, even if physically her body doesn’t move at all.

“Don’t retreat,” he dips his head forward, closer to hers.

“I’m not,” she lifts her chin, then closes her eyes again. “I’m not sure what you—”

“You are,” he counters. “Stop hiding.”

Her eyes are still closed. Almost childlike, as if perhaps she stays still and silent long enough, he’ll forget and fade away. Eist can feel the fear radiating off her shoulders in waves, as palpable as the heat of a fire. This woman has charged head-first upon armies three times the size of her own, has razed villages and stared death itself in the face a dozen times. He wonders who could have ever made her so timid and fearful, so tightly closed off, what harsh words could have made her fear opening up to anyone. Now all his frustration melts and all he wants is to hold her, to comfort and shield her.

But he can’t really do that until she drops her own shield.

He steps behind her again, lightly placing his hands on her taut shoulders. Her heavy robe had hidden it from view, but now he can feel the slight trembling of her body. He leans in again, pressing a heavy kiss at the back of her head. Her tension eases, just a little.

“You can just say it, Calanthe,” he wraps his arms around her, pulls her closer. He lets his hands wander over the field of blue dotted with gold lions, rubbing comforting circles into her body through the fabric. “Without all the flair and farce.”

She sighs, shaky and softly, leaning further back, further into him. She still trusts him, and that is what compels him further. 

“ _I love you_ ,” he whispers, taking a moment to kiss the side of her neck. “You can just say it.”

She gives a small, almost-whimpering huff at his proclamation. As if until this moment, she’d somehow doubted, as if her fears are finally relieved. He gently unties the sash of her robe, hands slipping beneath to map out the warm, soft body that arches further into his touch.

“Say it,” he gently prompts again. “Now. Sober. In the light of day."

She gives a shuddering breath, but offers nothing more.

He kisses the spot behind her ear, "Say it.”

She swallows hard, eyes still squeezed shut as her face tilts to the heavens. “You…you already know.”

“I do,” he concedes warmly. “Because you show me, always. And you _have_ told me, several times. But I want to hear it again.”

He places another kiss at the corner of her jaw, “Please.”

She sighs. He waits. He squeezes her breast, a silent prompt.

“I love you,” she breaths, barely audible. She sags further against him, as if it’s taken every ounce of strength to utter those three simple words.

“See?” He feels a wash of victory. “The world didn’t implode.”

“Give it a minute,” she drawls.

He laughs. This time, he lets his teeth test the side of her still-quite-tense neck. She makes a small sound of longing. There’s still a tension in the air, a breath still being held, but he can wait, he tells himself. He can give her space and wait. He simply holds her, letting their bodies rock gently against each other. He tries to let his touch say all the things his lips cannot: _I’m here, I’m still here, I love you and you love me and we’re still here, it’s alright, I’m not going anywhere, you’re safe._

Then he feels her exhale. Her brow furrows as she searches for something more. “I…I don’t know why I….”

She trails off, not sure how to express it. He can guess the rest, and quietly supplies, “It’s alright. I couldn’t either, at first.”

She hums in agreement. “Maybe if _you_ had said it sooner—”

“Nope,” he nips her earlobe now. “Can’t blame this one on me, my love.”

“Can’t know until I try,” she returns. He laughs at that. Now he pushes the robe from her shoulders, relishing the warmth of her bare body against his.

“Say it again.” He lets his hand slip further down, taking a moment to squeeze the side of her hip.

She lets her head fall forward now, bracing her arms on the table. Still, she obliges, “I love you.”

His hand moves again, down to the slick warmth between her thighs. She shivers and sighs, then bucks at the first brush of his finger against her clit. “Oh, fuck! I love you.”

He grins now. “I didn’t even have to ask that time.”

Her head dips further down, he can see the way her ribs shudder with silent laughter, half frustration, half leftover nerves.

“I love you, too,” he adds, his free hand slipping up the curve of her hip.

“I know.”

“I _know_ you know—that’s the whole point, woman.” He’s not nearly as annoyed as he pretends to be. He lets his hand splay open, pressing up the curve of her spine. She shifts, pressing further into him with her hips.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had her over this table. But it is the first time that they’re truly being intimate, in ways they haven’t allowed themselves to be before. And as lovely as the current view is, he wants every last barrier between them gone.

He steps back, fighting a grin at the small growl of displeasure it earns him. He holds her hips, turning her to face him.

She still looks terrified. Eyes wide and etched with fear, like he hasn’t seen since the night of Pavetta’s wedding feast. The night of their own wedding.

He thinks that if he could ever find whoever was responsible for this, for this fear she feels, for whatever makes her think her love must be too terrifying to utter, for whatever awful voice inside her head that screams no one could love her for more than a season before tiring of her, then he would tear them to pieces with his bare hands, bring her their hearts to feast on.

He opens his mouth to reassure her, but her words are quicker.

“I love you,” she blurts out, almost as if flinging a curse towards him, half fearful of it hitting the mark. She blinks, terrified and still brave enough to do it anyways. “And—I do. All the things I said, before. When I—when you thought I couldn’t remember. I meant them. All of them.”

“I know.”

“And I wish—there are some things I simply cannot—”

“You can. You did,” he reminds her, smiling in gentle pride. She flushes suddenly, realizing the truth behind his words. Her arms wrap around his neck, rising up to meet him in a kiss. He tightens his hold on her hips, lifting her onto the table. He breaks from the kiss, pressing his lips against her ear, “And it makes me love you all the more.”

He lets his lips map their way down her neck, following the line of her collarbone out to the curve of her shoulder, where his teeth nip, leaving a faint and fleeting mark.

“How much more?” She asks. He can hear how much concentration it takes for her to even form such simple words, and he grins triumphantly at the thought that he can reduce this woman to a quivering, barely coherent mess with a few kisses.

“It’s hard to put into words,” he admits, taking a beat to shift back. He keeps his hands planted on the table, on either side of her hips. With absolute seriousness, he locks his gaze onto hers. “Perhaps I could just show you?”

She gives a breathless huff of delight at that. Then she leans back, settling on her elbows, knees widening in invitation.

“Please do.”

So he does. And he tells her, again and again. And she echoes the words back to him, again and again. Now. Sober. In the light of day. Nothing left to hide.

* * *

She still doesn’t say it often—or at least not as often as one might expect, given the amount of love between them. Then again, neither does he. But they do say it, without fear or hesitation. They still echo it in the ways that they always have, with touches and sighs and kisses and laughter and sacrifices.

And Eist was absolutely right, he realizes. The great thing between them becomes greater, beyond more than he could have hoped or even imagined. And the next time he slips into her bed after a long voyage at sea (and the time after, and the time after, always and every time now), she doesn’t feign drunkenness when she kisses him, calls him sweet little soubriquets and whispers how much she’s missed him, how she always misses him when he’s away, every moment of every day. And in the morning, she repeats the refrain, between little light kisses and soft smiles, practically giddy to have him back by her side. He is the same, nearly bursting with joy at the thought of spending every available second loving and being loved by her.

It isn’t until his next voyage that he realizes the shift has finally happened—he stands on the deck, gaze turned eastward, towards the shores of Cintra.

_Home_ , he thinks with a sigh of satisfaction. _I’m heading home_.

Home, in his mind, isn’t the castle itself, or even the chambers that now hold almost as much of him as it does of her, now fuller with mutual memories of breath-stopping passion that would make the bawdiest bard blush and gentle tenderness that would make a maiden twitter and swoon. Home is a person, a woman who now looks him directly in the eyes as she quietly declares _I love you_ , no fear or hesitation anywhere to be found.

And the certainty is better. Warmer, deeper, knowing that they both know, they both remember. He loves it. Loves her. Tells her as much, as soon as he sees her again, heart soaring for the way she smiles softly before echoing it back to him. Fully sober, fully in control. Fully in love.


End file.
